I’m just writing to say hi. I hope you’re well. Sorry it’s been a while. I don’t have any grand themes to expound upon, so maybe writing this post like a letter makes the most sense.
I just got back from an extended weekend trip with my Kung Fu school, who I keep referring to as my “Kung Fu family”, because that is how I keep feeling about them. You know that Decemberists song, I think it’s off Picaresque: “Here in our hovel / We fused like a family”? I kept thinking of that, although the beach house we rented was no hovel. We trained hard all three days, and when we weren’t training, we were cooking, eating, playing video games, or soaking in the hot tub. We even jumped in the ocean, which even in Virginia was the worst February idea ever.
So that’s why I didn’t write to you last week.
I’m on the bus now to visit a good friend and fellow blogger in Maryland. My social life seems to be feast-or-fast; either I’m on the go several weekends in a row, or I’m up in my room, plugged in and sealed off, watching Netflix while other people do exciting things.
I haven’t been on a bus in a long time. It makes me think of earlier days: I used to enjoy thinking of myself as a rootless vagabond, and would jaunt off every summer I could, to visit people around the country. Once I spent two days on an Amtrak, heading for Dallas. I chatted with a metal musician who was in mid-detox and haunted by visions of demons — I gave him a miraculous medal to wear — and drank bad, expensive beer with a lawyer named Cain.
It’s harder to pretend I’m a vagabond now, what with the cell phone and kindle and laptop and all; and, whether because I’m more closed in on myself now or just because I’m older and a little less romantic, I’m keeping to myself. Besides, I have writing to do.
You ask me how come I’m not so lonesome and desperate anymore, and why depression isn’t such a big part of my life, barely a part at all. I wish I had a simple answer for you. Father T always used to tell me that there was no magic pill, no moment when you suddenly Find Yourself. You never find yourself, he insisted: you build yourself. Molecule by molecule, like stalactites.
Never give up, I guess. Find somebody to talk to, and keep talking as long as they’ll let you. Find your fears and confront them, but take it slow and be merciful to yourself.
Pray, pray, pray. Go to the Blessed Sacrament over and over; soak in His rays like you’re sunbathing, and never stop. The nice thing about being in front of the Blessed Sacrament: there’s no wrong way to do it. There are better ways and worse ways, but spending time at the feet of Jesus is never going to hurt you.
Find yourself a good therapist, and meanwhile fire the bad ones quickly, because they’re assholes and they don’t deserve your money or your time or your secrets. Consider getting some good meds. Write to me if I can help.
Okey doke, I think we’re approaching Hartford.
Peace and prayers,